You, Me
by peanutbutterer
Summary: Vegas. A K/D tag to 4x03.


**A/N: I sat down to write one of those silly, fluffy Kensi and Deeks Do Vegas fics that we all assumed we'd be flooded with post 4x03. (Still waiting for those, btw. Come on, fandom!) Then this happened instead. Whoops.**

* * *

She's laughing as she swipes the keycard and pushes open the door, wobbling only slightly in her four-inch heels. "Your names get exponentially worse. Amaryllis? Really?"

"Whoa there, partner." Deeks' hand comes to rest just above her hip to steady her. He decides that "only slightly" was probably a little generous.

She swats his hand away. "I'm _fine_, Deeks. It's just these damn heels."

He grins. "Sure thing, princess."

"How are you not even buzzed? You're the one that won the bet."

Deeks shrugs. "Oh, I'm buzzed, I'm just not going to topple."

"I am _not_ going to topple." She rights herself, clutching the door, and eyes the couch, a good five feet away from their current position. "But maybe you could hold my hand."

His grin widens.

"For balance." She scowls.

He leads her to the couch and she falls onto it gracelessly. He weaves his way around the coffee table and to the mini fridge, returning with two bottled waters and dropping down on the cushion beside her.

"Drink this," he says as he offers her one of the waters. When she doesn't immediately take it, he unscrews the cap and puts the bottle in her hand. "If you don't drink some water, you're going to have a nasty headache tomorrow."

"I'm waking up to your ugly mug, so the headache is inevitable."

"Oo. Drunk Kensi is a mean Kensi."

She thwaps him with a throw pillow.

"Further proof!"

"You're just lucky I don't have my gun." She settles deeper into the couch and gulps down some water.

"I am lucky."

She tilts her head so she's looking at him. "Me too."

There's something in the way she says it - something in her eyes - that tells him the conversation is about to head in a different direction, and it takes him a moment to keep his thoughts from derailing. "I don't know, Kens. You only got four drinks. I got six. I think that puts you firmly in the _unlucky_ category."

She scoffs. "Tell that to my 400 buckeroos."

Deeks can't hold back the laughter. "400 buckeroos! Did you get paid in Monopoly money too?"

"You're just mad you didn't win any money."

"You really won $400?"

She does that cute little wobble thing with her head - the one that she does when she's proud of herself - and beams at him. "Yup. But congrats on those two extra numbers and the twenty bucks they earned you. You're really coming out on top."

"I can't believe it. I spent the last two hours trying to get picked up by chicks for our bet and you were gambling!"

She pats his thigh. "It's okay, Deeks. I'll buy you a fish taco on Monday with my winnings."

"Such generosity."

"I am benevolent."

"More like malevolent."

"Po-tay-to, po-tah-to."

"I've never understood that. Does anyone really say 'po-tah-to'?"

"I'll po your tahto."

"And there goes our adult conversation," he says with a smile and a shake of his head.

"Speaking of adult conversations," she says as she twists, pulling her leg onto her lap and working to unfasten the buckle on her shoe, "are we going to share that bed? Because if you think you're going to get all handsy, you can have the couch."

"Yes, Melissa, dear. I think we can manage to share a bed without ravaging each other."

She snorts.

"Unless you were suggesting that we ravage without using hands, because that might be doable as well."

"Deeks."

"Just sayin'."

She successfully removes her shoe and hoists the remaining one onto his lap, turning so her back is fully pressed against the arm of the couch. She wiggles her foot and looks at him expectantly.

He sighs and reaches for the buckle.

"How much did you win last weekend?" she asks.

Either the buckles are abnormally tiny or he is a little more drunk than he first thought. Damn, how did she get into these? "Hmm?"

"When you came to Vegas."

"Oh, uh." He considers lying, but figures the odds of Sam and Callen ratting him out are pretty damn high. Better to fess up now. "I didn't actually make it to the tables."

She must have made her cash a few drinks earlier in the evening because right now her poker face is non-existent. "Oh. Gotcha."

"Not - no," he realizes his fingers are tracing her ankle and he stills them, "it's not what you're thinking."

She waves him off. "Whatever you and Beverly -"

"Bethany."

"- do is none of my business."

While technically she's right, and it's undeniably much better for his reputation to have her thinking he was shacked-up with a model all weekend, he feels the need to correct her assumption. "No, I mean she didn't come. I'm not seeing her anymore."

"Since when?"

"Um... two weeks ago?"

"She didn't want to look at your vacation pictures, huh?"

He smiles. "Funny girl."

"Really, though, I'm sorry."

He returns his attention to the buckle. "It's for the best. She was a cat person, if you can believe it."

"That's terrible."

"I know, right? Monty and I don't approve."

"No, I mean it's terrible that you'd break up with someone for preferring cats over dogs."

He slips her shoe off her foot and drops it onto the floor. "I've got standards, Kens."

"Since when?"

"Ouch." He clutches his chest.

"I'd be more specific, but I've never actually _met_ any of your lady friends."

He's distracted by her toes as she burrows them under his thigh, so it takes him a moment to respond. "I'm sorry, did you just say 'lady friends'?"

"You would prefer 'conquests' perhaps?"

He pretends to think about it. "'Lady friends' is good."

"So why is that?"

"Because 'conquests' is much more derogatory."

"No, why is it that I haven't met any of them?"

He shrugs. "They don't last very long."

She frowns, obviously thinking. "That's not true. That one chick lasted a couple months."

"'That one chick'?"

It's her turn to shrug. "I don't remember her name."

"Uh huh."

"I don't!"

He doesn't believe her for a second. "But you remember how long I was with her?"

"I typically don't refer to them by their names in my head."

"You refer to them in your head at all?"

She glares. "You know what I mean."

"Sure."

"I usually just associate them with their occupations. Bambi -"

"Bethany."

"- was always 'that model.'"

"So you're objectifying my lady friends. This is what you're telling me."

"It's not like I call them 'the one with the big -"

He grins.

"- smile' or something."

"Only because you've never seen them."

"Well you're always pretty graphic with your descriptions, so I have fairly good mental pictures."

"I don't think I want to know about your mental pictures."

She scrunches up her face. "Yeah, probably not."

He takes a final swig of his water and sets it on the coffee table. "I never meet your gentleman callers."

"Wow. Probably because you'd address them as 'gentleman callers' and I'd be humiliated." She tosses her empty bottle at him and he puts it beside his.

"I'm offended. I'd never humiliate you in front of your special friends."

She raises an eyebrow.

"Not on purpose. Probably."

She sighs and drops her head against the back of the couch. "You know the real reason we never meet our significant others?"

He's pretty sure it's because they've secretly fallen for each other and it would be really, really awkward to see their partner with someone else. He doesn't say that, though, because, while she may be a little drunk, he still figures she could kill him in three seconds or less, so he probably shouldn't provoke her. "Because we're super-secret agents?"

"That, and you're totally unconvincing as a meteorologist."

He gasps, offended. "That is absolutely untrue! I would look fabulous in front of a green screen." He demonstrates, waving his arms in a swooping motion. "What's that? That's a storm front moving in."

"Terrible. Really terrible."

"Oh sure, Ms. Curator. Get back to me when you learn the difference between Monet and Manet."

She rolls her eyes. "Like _you_ know."

"I don't claim to be an art professional. Ask me the difference between a cyclone and a tornado."

Luckily, she doesn't because he has absolutely no idea. "Who's Wikipedia now?"

"I just have superior intelligence. You don't have to be nasty about it."

She grunts before burrowing deeper into the couch. "You miss Ray?"

It takes him a moment to shift gears. "Ray? Yeah, I guess. I mean, we didn't really spend much time together anymore, but he was always _there_, you know? I mean, at least I knew he was within reach."

"Yeah." She smiles. "I wonder how he's adjusting to fatherhood."

"Like a fish to a bicycle."

Kensi laughs. "You really think he'd be terrible?"

"Actually, no. I mean, he had a horrible bastard of a father, but he'd never follow in his footsteps. He's probably a pretty good dad."

She nods. "He seemed to want it pretty badly."

"It's a nice idea."

"You think about it?"

"About having kids with Ray? He's not my type." He circles his hand in front of his chest. "Missing a little something here."

She yanks her toes out from under him and jabs him in the thigh. "Not what I meant and you know it."

"Do I think about having kids? Sure, sometimes. Seems pretty unrealistic though." He grabs her feet and puts them on his lap. "You're seriously killing my buzz, Kens."

"You could always go back down to the casino. Someone will buy you another drink in a matter of seconds."

"Still bitter about the loss, I see. It's not my fault I'm so attractive."

"In the same way mice think mouse traps are super attractive. Flies, fly paper. Bambi, rifle. It's pretty standard."

"My looks are anything but standard."

She stares at him a moment, clearly following some internal tangent. Her eyes flick to the door and back to him before she speaks again. "You know you could, uh, you know, if you wanted to."

He knows what she means, but she looks so adorably uncomfortable. "I could what?"

"You know." She waves a hand in the general direction of the door. "You could go spend the evening elsewhere."

"You trying to get rid of me?"

"Just trying to make sure I don't cramp your style."

He decides he probably doesn't want to know what she thinks his 'style' is. "Nah, I'd rather be here with you."

She looks genuinely surprised. "You'd rather be here with me than having sex with some floozy?"

He gasps. "Kensi Marie Blye, I'm offended you'd think me so crass as to sleep with someone on a first date."

"Actually, I assumed you'd skip the date part."

He tilts his head, eyebrows raised. "That's probably a fair assumption."

"Such a slut."

"It's a curse."

She rolls her eyes. "I bet."

"Oh please. Like you couldn't have any guy out there."

"I don't want any guy out there."

"Yeah." He tries to remember the crowd. "I didn't see any winners. Maybe that dude with the hair gel issue. You could just have shower sex, rinse it right out."

Her jaw drops. "I cannot believe you just said that."

"Just imagine it. It'd actually be pretty gratifying to give it a good scrub."

"We are not having this conversation."

"You'd work it into a lather -"

"Seriously, Deeks. Stop now."

He makes an abortive move to get up. "You want me to leave so you two can have the room?"

"I don't need the room, but I wouldn't mind if you left."

"You wound me."

"You disgust me."

She yawns and he tugs on her toe. "Bed?"

She nods. "Yes, please."

He slides off the couch and offers his hand. She takes it and he pulls her to her feet. She pads to the bathroom, snagging her bag on the way.

While she washes up he changes into his pajamas and flops on top of the bed, flipping absently through the channels on the television.

She comes out, hair loose around her shoulders, face clean of makeup and wearing cotton pants and an oversized shirt.

His chest tightens at the sight and it takes a little too much effort to make his next words come off as casual as he wants them to. "I knew it."

She doesn't even ask what he's talking about. "It's comfortable."

"It's _mine_."

"Well, I washed the smell out, so it's wearable now." She slips under the covers beside him.

"Please. You love my pheromones."

She huffs a laugh. "Maybe I'm just used to smelling your stinky self."

"I smell like sea salt and manliness."

"What does manliness smell like exactly?"

"The opposite of flowers."

"Then yes, you smell like manliness."

"I know you didn't mean that as a compliment, but I'm going to go ahead and take it as one. You are wearing my shirt after all."

"It was the only thing clean. I didn't get around to laundry last week."

That may answer why she's wearing it, but not why she has it in the first place, but he decides to drop it. He flicks through the channels and settles on the classic movie channel. It's some black and white thing with stuffy looking old guys in outdated suits. The movie plays in front of him, but he isn't really watching. He's thinking about last week, their last case, about what happened and about how poorly he handled things. He could probably let it slide - she obviously forgives him - but it's been nagging at him for days now and he's starting to realize it's not just going to fade from his conscience.

He clears his throat. "I'm, uh, I'm sorry for earlier - with the case, when I... I'm sorry for not," he scratches his head, fumbling over the wording. "For doubting you."

Her eyes don't leave the screen, but he can tell she's not watching any more than he is. "It's okay."

"No, It isn't. I shouldn't have done that."

"You were right. I was emotional."

"Yeah, you were, but I was wrong about your judgment. I should have known better." He turns to look at her. "I trust you, Kens. I always do. Regardless of where your heart is... at the end of the day, you use your head."

She gives him a mirthless smile. "I don't know about that. I remember that whole Talbot fiasco."

He doesn't let her get away with it. "You mean the one where we all believed the lying psychopath? You think your emotions had anything to do with him fooling us? With how that played out?"

"You can't tell me I handled that well."

"I can't tell you it could have been handled any differently."

She scrubs her hand over her face. "I don't think you were wrong to doubt me, Deeks. And you know how hard that is for me to say."

"I know, and I appreciate it, but I still feel like an ass."

"Yeah, well, next time you doubt me, don't do it in front of the team. Just come to me, okay?"

"Like how next time you're going to come to me and explain what's going on when you're having a personal connection with a case?"

She purses her lips.

"That's what I thought."

"Astrid just..."

"She reminds you of you."

"A little, yeah."

"Pink hair?"

"Fiercely independent."

He nods. "I can see that too."

"She'd kick your ass at the poker table." Kensi smiles at the memory. "She kicked Hetty's ass."

He still doesn't feel like everything's all roses, but the air is a little clearer and it's probably okay to move on. For now, anyway. He wonders if she'll ever open up to him completely - if she'll ever reveal why exactly it is that Astrid struck a chord. He knows they're not open books with each other, but for a while there he felt like they were pretty damn close. Maybe they weren't as close as he'd thought. Maybe he's seeing things that aren't there. Maybe they have farther to go than he realized. He wishes that weren't the case.

But he knows Kensi well enough to know that he shouldn't push her - that he should take the step they made tonight and consider it a win. He knows he should allow the subject change and let them move on.

"How was girls' night?" he asks as he turns off the television and relaxes back into the pillow.

She's blinking slowly now, curled up on her side and clearly settled in for sleep. When she responds, it's barely more than a whisper. "Interesting."

He reaches over and tugs the sheet up to her shoulder. "Good interesting or..."

"She thinks I'm in love with you."

His hand stills and he takes a moment to make sure he heard what he thinks he heard. "She what?"

"Astrid thinks I'm in love with you."

"Why," he stutters, pulling his hand back, suddenly not wholly in control of his tongue, "why would she think that?"

Kensi shakes her head, her eyes completely closed. She's obviously not feeling the sudden shift in the room that practically knocked the wind out of him. She's not even fazed. "I don't know. I guess just from seeing us together. It's not like I said anything."

He wants to say, _so, are you? _but for some reason that particular question is lodging in his throat. Instead he says, "Huh."

"Yeah," she says softly, "silly."

"Silly," he agrees. He thinks that's what he says, anyway. His head's still stuck back a few paces. "Does Hetty, uh..."

She shakes her head again. "No, Hetty wasn't there for that. Though I'm guessing she thinks so too."

Oh. "Oh."

He tries to figure out what it means that Kensi thinks that - what it means that she _said_ that, but he can't quite figure it out.

Kensi's yawns so wide her jaw pops.

"Go to sleep," he says.

"Mmm hmm," she mumbles, practically already there.

He reaches for the lamp and switches it off before wriggling himself under the covers. Warmth radiates off the woman beside him, her body heat mixing with the electricity between them. His mind is going a mile a minute, replaying the last few months, analyzing them and overanalyzing them - every conversation, every touch. They've always had a thing, but lately it's been building. He figured - well, he doesn't know what he figured, but it was always such an abstract notion, such an ethereal thing he never actually planned on grasping for it. But if it's reached the point where someone who sees them together for less than an hour can see it; if it's reached the point where Kensi will _talk _about it - maybe it's not as ethereal as he once thought.

For the first time, he allows himself to consider the possibility that maybe everyone else is right. Maybe Kensi _is _in love with him.

"Kens?"

She snort-snores in response.

In the darkness, Deeks smiles. Maybe he's in love with her, too.


End file.
